


Drabble collection - Various pairing

by Apuzzlingprince



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 07:46:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4617132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A place to put all my drabbles that aren't long enough for their own post. Contains a variety of different pairings (All concerning Grunkle Stan/Stanley Pines) and occasionally features AU's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Stanley learned to cook

Stanley didn’t know how to cook. He hadn’t been able to afford either fresh food or a stove while living out of his car, so he had subsisted on junk food for the last decade. He had told Fiddleford this during a story about Mcdonalds, about their evening pancake special being the only meal he had been able to afford for two months straight, and Fiddleford had felt so awful for him that he resolved to bring him a freshly cooked meal every time he went over; Fiddleford, unlike Stan, was a fantastic cook. Being a single father meant he’d had no choice but to learn, and he had come to enjoy it as a hobby.

Stanley was always ecstatic about whatever Fiddleford brought him. He hadn’t had home cooked meals since being kicked out of his house, and even then, his family had favoured fast food. His meals never lasted long once they were in Stanley’s hands. It didn’t matter what he cooked; Stanley always liked it. He’d barely stop to take a breath as he forked it into his gullet, and then he’d lick the plate clean while mumbling compliments and swipe his tongue along his lips in search of remnants until he was certain there was nothing left. Even his son didn’t like his food nearly as much as Stanley did (and got belligerent if he tried to sneak vegetables of the green variety into a meal). 

But with every use of the memory gun, Fiddleford found himself struggling to cook. He forgot things, temperatures and ingredients and the like. He found himself having to cook meals three times before he got them right. His son was removed from his custody after a particularly explosive incident with the oven, and that was when he realized he had to stop. So, instead of letting Stanley go without, he decided to teach him how to cook. He was a fast learner. Surprisingly fast, considering how little he thought of his own intelligence. He didn’t seem to enjoy it in the same way Fiddleford did, but it didn’t take him long at all to not only learn how to cook, but to surpass his teacher. Fiddleford couldn’t stop grinning the first time Stanley brought a bowl of chunky beef stew to his house. That same grin sprung up every time Stanley came by with dinner, and he kept on grinning even when he couldn’t quite remember who this man was and why he was bringing food to his little nest constructed of scavenged tin roofing.

The man used to smile at him. A little strained, but it had still been a smile. He didn’t anymore. He just sat there, all grey and tired, and stared down at a bright red book with pages worn and dog-eared from overuse. 

One day, he hushed Fiddleford’s babbling and said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

The meals stopped coming after that, and eventually Fiddleford forgot there had ever been a time he hadn’t been hungry.


	2. Leash and collar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short Fiddlestan drabble featuring the Reverse Pines AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was thinking about http://torpedo-arts.tumblr.com/post/125900692492 thing torpedo drew and I ended up making a drabble.

The boy’s name was Stanley. Very handsome, very well-kept, with thick brown hair and neat stubble. He was quieter than his twin, maybe even a little bit timid, but he had an explosive temper when pushed and he wasn’t afraid to flaunt his superiority over the residents of Gravity Falls, either. 

His brother was the opposite; controlling, domineering, perspicacious and careful, and confident to a fault. Naturally, he had Stanley as good as collared. 

But today, Fiddleford was the one who held the leash.

He smiled across his desk at Stanley, his long fingers laced under his chin. “So, Mr. Pines.” His eyes dropped over Stanley from top to bottom, once, and then returned to his face, and his smile widened. “You and your brother want me to finance and otherwise assist with your latest venture. That’s quite a request. Very brazen.”

“We can make it worth your while, Mr. Mcgucket,” Stanley assured him.

Fiddleford leaned forward in his chair, the leather creaking as he did. “’We’? No, _you_ can make it worth my while, and I have just the thing in mind…”


	3. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion between Stanley and Stanford. Contains Stancest.

Even after thirty years, both Stanford and Stanley were acutely aware their relationship was taboo. In front of the kids, they only hugged. It was long and meaningful and Stanford ran a hand up into Stanley’s greyed hair, gripping tight, but it wasn’t intimate. They weren’t about to expose _children_ to an incestuous relationship.  
  
It was when they were finally alone, deep in the forest, that they pulled down the seats of Stanley’s car and lay down in the back, fingers entwined and bodies flush together. Assuming the police continued their pursuit into the forest, it would be some hours before they were found. Until then, Stanley intended to soak up as much of his brother as he could.  
  
“Can’t believe you left for thirty years,” Stanley groused, murmuring into Stanford’s clavicle. “And now you’re gonna have to visit me in prison.”  
  
“We could always drive away, you know,” Stanford suggested. He ran his fingers over Stanley’s shoulder blades, kneading away the tense knots there. “We could go on a road trip across the country. They’d never find us.”  
  
“Can’t. I told the kids I’d be coming back soon.”   
  
“Call their parents first. They’ll drive down to pick them up.”  
  
Stanley buried himself deeper into Stanford chest. “Stop tempting me, asshole. I can’t leave them here.”  
  
“Okay, okay, fine…” Sighing, Stanford rose up onto his elbows to press his mouth to Stanley’s temple. “You’d better make this one hell of a reunion, then.” He trailed light kisses down to Stanley’s mouth, before delving his hands down beneath Stanley’s suit jacket.  
  
Stanley grinned, moving to accommodate his brothers exploring hands. “Sounds good to me.”

“…Geeze, Stan.” His brother’s mouth pursed.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You got fat.”  
  
“Say that again and I’ll _smother_ you with it.”


	4. First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where the brothers move to Gravity Falls together. Ends in a kiss.

Stan’s an easy guy to get worked up. Throw a monster his way and he turns into the one man equivalent of a group of drunk teenagers at their very first concert; very energetic, very loud, and more than a little on the obnoxious side.   
  
Stanford could fight the monsters himself if he really wanted to, but his brother insists he be the one to deal with them. He calls them ‘the perfect outlet’ for his energy. Stanford disagrees, and if he had it his way, he’d take Stanley to the gym a couple of times a week, where there’s no chance of him ending up eviscerated, maimed, incapacitated, decapitated, or just outright killed. But Stanley won’t have that. He’s a stubborn guy. He won’t even wait for food out of the oven to cool before eating it, that’s how stubborn he is. 

As much as he doesn’t like Stanley throwing himself into danger, it’s probably for the best, because Stanley’s high energy levels lead him to doing outrageous things, sometimes. More outrageous than fighting monsters. 

Kissing his own brother, for example.  
  
It’s a warm Saturday afternoon when it happens, and by some miracle, Stan had just managed to down something at least three times larger than himself with one punch. _One_. Unsurprisingly, he still had plenty of energy to spare when the monster collapsed to the forest floor. He gave it several heavy kicks to the torso, before jogging his way over to Stanford and punching the air a couple of times to demonstrate just how he’d knocked the monster out.  
  
“Did you see that! Christ, one strike!”  
  
“—I did, and—“  
  
“I’m getting real good at this. Could start punching things for a living again!“  
  
“—That’s actually a—“  
  
“But, nah. The pay was never that great honestly. Besides, it’s way more fun to punch monsters than people and, and—“  
  
Stanley quite abruptly grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him forward into a hot and heavy and very toothy kiss. He managed to mutter ‘holy shit’ straight into the mouth covering his own before it pulled back and formed a very startled ‘O’. He looked up from that ‘O’ shaped mouth, to Stanley’s face, and was surprised to find it a deep red. The blush was so thorough it reached the tips of Stanley’s ears. His own face wasn’t nearly as hot, but he had less reason to be embarrassed than Stanley, he supposed.  
  
“Uh,” Stanley began articulately. “Sorry. Went a little overboard.”  
  
“No, no, it’s okay,” Stanford began hurriedly. “I understand, I, uh…” Saying he ‘enjoyed it’ probably wasn’t going to help the situation, so he shook his head and turned to leave. “Let’s just go home, okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Stan agreed, sounding somewhat relieved. He started to walk up alongside Stanford. “Just forget I did that.”  
  
“I will,” Stanford reassured him. It was a lie, of course; his mouth was still tingling, and the way Stanley had looked immediately after, all flustered and shy…  
  
Stanford felt a stirring in his trousers and knew he had a very big problem.


	5. It's a deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: Stancest with evil Stanford.

He’s an asshole. Stan knows that. He’s self-absorbed, has trouble empathizing with others, resorts to violence at the drop of a hat, and is just in general a difficult person to get along with. He makes no attempt to hide what sort of person he is and people _hate_ that.  He has his secrets, but his personality isn’t one of them.  
  
His brother is an asshole, too, but he’s a different sort of asshole. Not an overt one, like Stan. He’s quiet and scheming and controlling and passive aggressive. Sometimes he’s outright aggressive, but not as often as he’s passive about it. Probably because he knows Stan can deal with fists, can take a punch, but can’t handle soft ‘well-meaning’ snipes about ‘how poorly he was brought up’ and ‘how he brings shame to the family, but it’s okay, because he’ll learn to be a better person one day’.   
  
Stan knows his brother is a special brand of asshole and has known for a very long time, but he’s still always very quiet and compliant after an argument with him. It doesn’t matter if he was in the right, he’ll be convinced he was wrong by the end of it. He’s so used to losing their arguments it never takes him long to concede.   
  
Maybe that’s why he never protests when his brother settles over his lap and divests him of his clothes, kissing his way up his muscled chest while Stan stares up at the ceiling and swelters. It’s disgusting, it’s wrong, and it makes him want to kick his brother to the floor and keep on kicking until he promises to never do it ever again, but he never does anything about it. It’s his fault, after all. If he’d just kept his mouth shut…  
  
The worst thing is, it always feels good. His brother can bite and slap and pull when upset and that doesn’t feel good at all, but most of the time, he chooses to be soft, and Stan knows it’s because that’s worse than anything else his brother could do to him. He’s accustomed to violence. He isn’t accustomed to having to hold back the urge to scream because something his brother is doing to him feels _so good_. It’s a different sort of vulnerable than the vulnerable that comes with losing a fist fight, and he hates it.  
  
Actually, no. _That_ isn’t the worst part. The worst part is, despite everything his brother has done to him and will do to him in the future, he will always love him, and Stan isn’t a person who loves many people. His father, his brother. Carla, once upon a time. His brother is probably the one he loves most out of all of them, and that the person who he loves the most so often makes him feel worthless and frightened –  it makes him wish his brother would just disappear. He curls up sometimes, on the edge of their bed, and spends hours wishing his brother would disappear. Please, just disappear–  
  
“Hey there, Stan!”  
  
His eyes snap open. Bill is hovering in front of him, bobbing up and down.  
  
“So you wanna get rid of your brother? I think I know a way to do that!” Stanley watches warily as he extends a hand encased in a blue flame. “All you have to do is shake my hand.”


	6. Stanley falls in love, otherwise known as 'the best thing I've ever written'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley realizes he likes Bill.

When Stan fell in love with people, he fell hard. Carla had been his first. When that girl had flung herself into his arms he had been sure she would be the only girl he would ever want.  
  
In a way, he had been right, because Bill wasn’t a girl. He wasn’t really a guy, either. He was something else entirely, and whatever that was, it was beyond human comprehension. Stan only referred to him as a ‘dream demon’ because that’s what Bill had said he was, but the way Bill spoke, the things he claimed he could do, and the things he _did_ do suggested he was far more than what he led people to believe, or he simply didn’t know how to describe himself in a way humans could understand.  
  
It was weird to be in love with something that defied definition. He should have been awed by Bill, not in love with him.  
  
Bill seemed absolutely thrilled when Stan told him, though. He swung his cane up beneath Stan’s chin, leaning his triangular body in close enough that Stan could feel it vibrating in barely withheld excitement.  
  
“Before we consummate this thing, I got a question for you, Stan: Do you like tentacles?”  
  
“Uh…”   
  
“Because if you do, I have some great news for you!”


	7. The various ways I love you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford and Stanley being cute.

Fiddleford has a very large nose. And hey, Stan isn’t complaining. He thinks it’s cute. It’s a bit of a hindrance when they’re trying to make out (Fiddleford once slapped him when he complained about his ‘behemoth of a nose’ getting in the way, so he doesn’t mention it anymore), but it really is very cute. Honestly, Fiddleford has the sort of face that Stan would find cute even if he were to have a carrot smack bang right in the middle of it. He has those dark lashes and really bright blue eyes, and a set of the whitest teeth Stan has ever seen, and sand coloured hair that frames his face just right. He’s just a really attractive guy, and Stan looks at him the same way he looked at Carla: like he’s the only thing in the room… which is really inconvenient when they’re trying to fight a monster.   
  
He comes up with a lot of stupid, smoopey, poetic crap like that when he thinks about Fiddleford. Sometimes he writes it down. You know, just in case Valentine’s Day is coming up, so he has something to write in a card. When he does, he shoves the bit of paper into his bedroom drawer and forgets about it.  
  
“His nose is adorable, same with the rest of his face.”  
  
“I really like that cologne he wears, gotta ask what it is some time.”  
  
“He’s the smartest guy I know, and I got a brother with a brain the size of Manhattan.”  
  
“I hear him humming in the shower sometimes and it’s really nice.”  
  
This is what greets him after he awakens from resting after a hearty romp. Stan rolls over in bed, momentarily horrified to find Fiddleford digging through his bedside drawer, and even more so to see the tears in Fiddleford’s eyes.  
  
Until he sees the grin on the mans face.


	8. The reality of what you are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddlestan featuring evil!Stanley. Fiddleford thought Stanley was a decent man. He was wrong.

He’d always known Stanley was a dubious character, but a bad person? No. The thought that he was bad had never crossed his mind. Bad people, to him, weren’t the sort of people you could forge a relationship with. They weren’t warm, they weren’t receptive, they didn’t make you feel safe, nor loved. Stan had provided him with all those things throughout their relationship.  
  
But he had been wrong. Stanley  _was_ a bad person.

He had aligned with Bill, and together they had thrown Stanford into the portal and sealed it off behind him.  
  
A person like Fiddleford, shorty and wiry, wasn’t able to do anything to stop it. Stanford was gone. All that remained was a defunct portal and the man that had spent years working alongside them to create it. Bill was absent, a small and brief consolation before Stan turned on him, tall and looming like a beast.  
  
Fiddleford didn’t even pause before turning to run. He ran through the house, Stanley following close behind, and threw himself into Stanford’s room, leaving the door wide open while he searched the drawers for the weapon he knew was concealed inside. When Stan came thundering through the door, he turned and – shot him, straight through the shoulder. The man bellowed and stumbled back, and there were a few thudding steps before Stan collapsed in a heap just beyond the door.  
  
Fiddleford ’s hands were shaking so hard the gun slipped straight out of them. The sound of it impacting with the floor was drowned out by the loud moaning of his wounded assailant. The bullet hadn’t been big. The gun was traditionally meant for hunting birds, so he needed to act, fast, before Stanley recovered. 

He swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat and slowly picked up a metal lamp from the desk, testing its weight in his hands. 

Heavy. It would do the trick.

* * *

“He was goin’ too far. I had to do it.”

Fiddleford hadn’t cleaned off the blood he’d drawn while beating Stan around the head with the lamp, nor had he cleaned Stan’s shoulder wound. The blood was almost as uncomfortable a sight as the ropes securing Stan to one of his own kitchen chairs.

“Come on, Fid’s, you don’t wanna keep me here.”

He turned and frowned at his captive. “Why wouldn’t I want to keep you here? You did _that_ to- to your own brother.” He made a sound of disgust. “You know he isn’t going to come back, right?”

“Yeah, of course I do. That’s what I wanted,” Stan replied, with not a trace of remorse. Fiddleford curled his hands into fists and turned away. He couldn’t stand to look at the man any longer.

“You could have destroyed the portal. You could have spoken to him. You didn’t need to kill him.”

“He was fuckin’ dangerous, Fids, the world is better off without him trying to pry open Pandora’s box, or whatever the hell it’s called.”

“I can’t believe you’re trying to justify it. I– I can’t believe– I can’t believe you let me _love_ you. I can’t believe you would be so _heartless_.”

“Hey, come on, you initiated that.” Stan, finally, looked mildly affected by Fiddleford’s criticism. “You wanted me. I indulged ya. Nothing wrong with that. We both got something out of it.”

“Something– something–” Fiddleford could feel his temper boiling. He turned, gesturing wildly with his hands, his expression one of outrage. “You were more than just a sex partner to me, Stan! I – I had a _wife_ , I left her for _you_!”

“That was your own mistake.”

Hurt flashed across Fiddleford’s face before he retreated a couple of steps and perched himself on the edge of a desk, dropping his face into his hands. He wanted to cry, he wanted to be sick, but he was going to do neither of those things while Stan was in the room. He was afraid of how Stan would respond. Anger? Derision? Laughter? 

He blinked away the tears in his eyes, took a couple of unsteady breaths, and straightened himself. Forcing a calm facade into place, he hesitantly retrieved a chair leg he had set on the table earlier.

“Stan…”

Deep breaths. You can do this.

“I need you to tell me everything about Bill Cipher.”

“Yeah?” Stan’s eyes dropped to the chair leg. Fiddleford’s stomach immediately became a squirming mess of organs. “You gonna use that to get your answers?”

“If – if I have to.”

Stan gave him a measured look. “Well, you already shot me, but that was pretty impersonal, wasn’t it? You think you’re gonna be able to beat a guy you’re in love with? Think you’re gonna be able to keep your cool if I say ‘I love you’ while you’re doing it?”

Fiddleford flinched away, grip slackening on the chair leg – but he resumed clutching it soon after. “You never meant it. You wouldn’t mean it now, either.”

Stan barked a laugh, hunching as low as he was able in the chair. “Yeah, you’re right about that. I never loved you.”

Blind rage led him into the first strike, and the others came easy after that.

* * *

Stan Pines wasn’t an easy person to get answers out of. When he wanted to remain quiet, he remained quiet, regardless of how much effort one put into wrenching the answers out of him. Fiddleford found himself unable to elicit anything but the occasional grunt or moan throughout the questioning. By the end of it, he was sweaty and miserable and had resorted to shaking Stan’s broad shoulders, the chair leg long since discarded.

Bloodied and beaten though he was, Stan still managed to tilt his head up, murmuring something soft and incomprehensible under his breath.

-Information?

Fiddleford eagerly lowered an ear to his mouth.

“You meant more to me than my own brother.”

Fiddleford began to sob.


	9. The Trunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What exactly happened when Stanley had to chew his way out of a trunk?

The screaming of his brothers name had become involuntary. After his first hour in the sweltering hot trunk of some abandoned chevrolet, he had started screaming. He’d been scared when those thugs - Micky’s crew - had trussed him up and thrown him inside, but now he was _terrified_.

“Stanford! Stanford! Ford! FORD! Oh god, please, please, please-”

His throat was dry and aching and he’d shed as many tears as his ducts were able to produce, but he went on screaming and screaming and screaming.

Until the trunk creaked, and light peered inside. His pupils went from saucers to pinpricks in a sudden, painful throb and he blinked rapidly. By the time his eyes had adjusted to the light, the trunk had been pushed wide open and a silhouetted figure slowly took the form of - not one of Micky’s men, not some random smuck - but his _brother_.

Stanford stood there, looking down at him with face taut with worry, the sun above his head like a rustic halo.

“Stanley!” Ford cried. His brother’s hands fluttered briefly beneath his nose, wiping away the blood that had congealed there, and then moved up to cup the deep purple hue on his cheek. Stanley didn’t seem able to will himself to respond, his jaw having gone slack in surprise. “Stanley - oh christ, there’s so much blood- what did they do to you? Are you alright?”

He worked his mouth a couple of times to force it back into operational order, and when he did manage to speak, his voice was uncharacteristically quiet, barely above a whisper. “Ford…?” He swallowed around a lump that was rapidly forming in his throat. “I’m - I’m alright. ‘Lil battered up, that’s all. Nothin’ antiseptic and toilet paper won’t fix.”

“Good. _Good_. For a moment there, I thought they might have cut out your tongue.” Ford heaved a sigh of relief. “And now that I know your body parts are all intact…” The hand on his cheek suddenly reared back and slapped the top of his head, gently but reprimandingly. “You _complete_ dunderhead! Do you have any idea how worried I was!? How _terrified_ I was!? I thought I’d lost you!”

Stanley felt a lashing of guilt; he’d honestly thought Stanford had abandoned him. He’d thought himself alone in the world. No parents, no brother, no friends. But Stanford was here, and all those times he’d told himself he was alone, that he didn’t need anyone or any help, seemed so _childish_ now. 

“Well, ‘m still here,” he offered with a weak smile. 

Stanford scoffed. “Most half-assed apology I’ve ever heard, but I’ll let it pass.” He felt his brother’s familiar six-fingered, broad-palmed grip around his shoulders and could have melted straight into it; he hadn’t realized how desperately he missed home until now. “Right, we’re going to get you out of here and fix any debts you have. I’m going to keep you safe, Stanley. Everything’s going to be alright now.” He braced himself against Stanford’s chest as he was dragged torso-first out of the trunk, but his weight was too great - Stanford’s grip faltered - he was airborne-

He opened his eyes and the vague outline of the inside of the trunk greeted him. 

Just a dream.

Stanley gave a wet sort of laugh and brought his bindings back up to his mouth to resume chewing.


	10. Rough hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where Stanley fixes the portal within a year, but it's been thirty for Stanford when he steps out. Stancest.

His brothers hands were calloused. When they gripped, and palmed, and slid up beneath his shirt and over his heaving chest, he could feel multiple little breaks and bumps where the skin on his palms and fingers had been damaged and gradually healed over. His mouth was similarly hard with age and experience, and he withered as he felt it glide over his back, up the ridges of his spine, before Ford’s teeth bit a bruise into the nape of his neck. Stanley let out a little breathy sound and curled as well as he was able around the kitchen counter. 

“Geez, Ford, I never would’a guessed you were such a pervert,” he murmured wryly, trying to guide one of Stanford’s hands down towards his crotch. The hand he’d been attempting to guide obliged, cupping him roughly through his trousers, squeezing. Stanley shuddered all over.

“Be quiet,” Stanford growled, in a stern but gentle voice that made Stanley’s crotch tighten. Those calloused fingers of his popped the button on his trousers and shimmed them down. “You’re even harder than I am, and we’ve barely started.”

“Yeah, that tends to happen when you’re a good thirty years younger,” Stanley pointed out, and received several hard pumps of his cock in response. It silenced anything else he’d wanted to say, the only sound to leave his mouth being a stuttering moan, ‘Ah- ah- AH!’. 

Thirty years in that portal had made Stanford damn good at getting him to shut up through use of his hands.


End file.
